


Beggars Belief

by bookjunkiecat



Series: Glimpses of the Heart [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Day Two, Depression, Divorce, February Writing Challenge, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-12 23:07:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13557531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Lestrade is NOT having an easy time of it post-divorce.





	Beggars Belief

          It wasn’t often these days that Lestrade was comfortable alone with his own thoughts—hell, it wasn’t often these days that he left himself _time_ to think.

          The key to making it through this divorce, he had decided, was to immerse himself in work and let everything else hang. His unsolved cases were dwindling—even without the help of the World’s Only Consulting Pain in the Arse—and the Chief Super had mumbled a ‘well done, Lestrade’ at him only the other day. His career, at least, wasn’t going to go down in flames like the rest of his life.

          Really it shouldn’t have been any surprise that his marriage to Natalie tanked; most coppers had their marriages end in divorce than end happily with a fiftieth anniversary. Once he’d made Detective Inspector the amount of time Lestrade had spent at home had begun shrinking at an alarming rate; factor into it his transfer a few years later to Serious Crimes, then his increased work-load when he’d somehow saddled himself with Sherlock, and it was probably inevitable. Sure his star had been rising, but that wasn’t enough to please Natalie; she wanted a husband who worked a safe, boring career with safe, boring (dependable) banker’s hours.

          She didn’t want a stressed, overworked husband, going gray before his time, with non-motile sperm and a closer relationship with his Sergeant than with her.

          Well she didn’t have to worry about that now. Now she had _Daniel_. _Daniel_ was a teacher at a safe, lovely school and he was home every night for tea and _Strictly Come Dancing_. A man like Daniel had sunny blonde hair and a sunny personality and loads of sunny fucking friends to have barbecues with on weekends; he had spare time to put up shelves and take down curtains; he had Olympic champion swimmers that had already gotten Lestrade’s wife— ex-wife—pregnant.

          Daniel didn’t have heartache and regret and a lonely bed-sit in a lonely house full of lonely people. He didn’t have conversations dropping off when he appeared, or murmured how are yous at every turn. No well-meant platitudes about finding The One (as if he could do that at nearly fifty) and no uncomfortable offers to fix him up with A Very Nice Woman.

          Daniel had a home and a wife, a baby on the way, a Safe, Lovely Career and hair like merry fucking sunshine, and people who called him by his first name.

          Lestrade was Lestrade. No one called him Greg any more. No one insisted he eat something other than takeaway, or get some sleep, or reminded him to do laundry before he was forced to wear his pants inside out. There wasn’t anyone to add vitamins to the shopping list—there wasn’t anyone to do the shopping when he inevitably got called into work—or rub his shoulders or buy him shampoo or ask about his day.

          So yeah. Lestrade kept busy. He ran his team hard and then asked still more of them. He closed cases and he reached for the next file and the next. And when he was too tired to focus on the words running into nonsense in front of him, Lestrade turned off the lights and curled himself into the stiff, unwelcome embrace of the sofa in his office and cat-napped until he could pry his eyes open, pour coffee down his gullet and begin again.

          No one dared say a word to him about his unhealthy behaviour, not after he’d nearly taken Dimmock’s kindly meant suggestion that he pack it in and go home as a personal affront and verbally eviscerated the new DI. He hated everyone tiptoeing around him, but it was better than any more unsolicited advice as to how he ought to live his life. Lestrade hugged his isolation and exhaustion to him as a shield and ploughed ahead until he once more fell asleep at his desk, rising creakily two hours later to stagger to the loo and then come back and collapse on his sofa.

          Waking with a wretched headache and an appallingly dry mouth, Greg took two tries to sit up and swing his legs to the floor. He grunted and rubbed his forehead, squinting against the fluorescent lights in the hallway. It must be nearly time for first shift if the hall lights were on. Reaching down for his shoes, he eased them on, tugging his sagging, day-old socks up and wondering if he had any clean ones in the duffle he kept in the locker room. Perhaps he could slip a constable a fiver and have him run out and buy a pair.

          It wasn’t until he was passing his messy desk that Lestrade noticed the hamper sitting on his open files. Warily he approached it, lifting one side with his finger and taking a peek. Flipping back the lid he stared in confusion at an electric razor, socks, pants, an Oxford still folded, pinned and neatly wrapped in plastic, a Thermos, a wax paper wrapped bundle of what appeared to be sandwiches, and a packet of paracetamol. A glance out the door of his office confirmed that none of his team was in yet, and the only officers on the floor were at the other end of the bullpen. Lifting his desk phone, Greg called the duty sergeant and was informed that he had had a late night visitor.

          Sitting in his chair he opened the sandwiches, realizing, as he held buttered bread and roast beef in his hand just how stupendously hungry he was. Lestrade took a wolfish bite and bit back a groan; bloody hell, he’d been hungrier than he realized. With one hand he thumbed butter away from his lips and with the other he tapped out a message.

_YOU brought me a care package?_

_Unlike myself, you function best with_

_regular sleep and nourishment. SH_

          The Thermos contained dark roast and smelled faintly of hazelnut; Lestrade swallowed coffee and a happy moan, then immediately crammed another bite of food in his mouth and sent a reply.

_Thanks, Sherlock._

_Someone had to take steps_

_before the one half-way decent_

_officer the Metropolitan Police_

_have to offer succumbed to_

_hysterical exhaustion. SH_

_I refuse to work with GREGSON. SH_

          “Bastard,” Lestrade said fondly. He finished the last (slightly too-large) bite of sandwich and poked through the other three; cheese and pickle, cream cheese and tomato, and chicken and chutney. Sipping more of the excellent coffee, he decided on the chicken and took a healthy bite before sending back a simple thank you.

 

_Besides, it beggars belief that a man_

_such as yourself should pine for a woman_

_clearly lacking good judgement. SH_

 

_She had her choice_

_between you & him._

_She chose poorly. SH_

 

          Maybe Sherlock was just a self-serving bastard who was only concerned lest he lose access to NSY’s most interesting cases by letting the one chump soft enough to let him onto their crime scenes work himself to death. But he’d take it over pity any day, Lestrade decided, washing two tablets down with more coffee and propping his (soon to be encased in clean socks) feet on the edge of his untidy desk.

          It felt nice to have someone care.

         

**Author's Note:**

> This was not my finest writing, but it has been a very long day (a good day, but a long one, nonetheless) and I wanted to get something written and posted while it was still the 2nd in my time zone.
> 
> I like to think that even in his early days, before the full influence of John's friendship is felt, that Sherlock had some care for Lestrade the way he did with Mrs. Hudson--even if he was balls at expressing it.


End file.
